


lift your face the western way

by brinnanza



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hand Touching, Hugs, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, Wordless Communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 06:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19193956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: There is just this, then: Crowley, unnaturally still and silent beside him in this liminal space. Crowley, the one being who’d only ever wanted to walk beside him, wherever those roads may lead.A missing scene for episode six.





	lift your face the western way

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my singular contribution to the tv-verse. Title is from queen's hammer to fall because that seemed like an appropriate song choice but "waiting for the hammer to fall" didn't quite fit the tone and is a rather obvious choice anyway.

The number six bus to Oxford heads east on the A40, toward London and the charred remains of Aziraphale’s bookshop. It’s quiet, just the hum of the engine, Crowley’s steady breathing, the occasional soft rustle as the other passengers shift in their seats. The driver had turned out the interior lights once they’d gotten on the motorway proper, leaving only the occasional yellow flicker of passing headlights to illuminate Crowley’s face, impossible to read behind his dark glasses. They don’t speak.

Angels don’t get tired, don’t need to sleep, but something heavy lives in Aziraphale’s bones, tethering him firmly to earth. Sleep has never been his vice of choice, but he thinks he might see the appeal now if it will lighten all this weight even a little. He’s meant to be a creature of divine light, ethereal, but his entire being feels so solid, like he might slip out through his corporation and into the floor.

Maybe this is what Falling feels like.

Aziraphale leans his head against the window, and that helps alleviate the pull of gravity a little bit. The motion of the bus jostles his temple against the glass uncomfortably, but he thinks if he leans against Crowley, the combined weight of them will be too much for their corporations to hold onto. There’s nowhere further Crowley can fall except into oblivion, and even now, standing on the edge of his own unfathomable abyss, Aziraphale can’t abide it. 

He’d wanted to see the burnt out remains of his bookshop, bear witness to the consequences of defying Heaven like it could be at once a punishment and penance, but he knows now that there’s no absolution waiting for him there. Crowley had been spare on the details of what remained besides ashes, but somehow Aziraphale knows there will be nothing left to recover.

There is just this, then: Crowley, unnaturally still and silent beside him in this liminal space. Crowley, the one being who’d only ever wanted to walk beside him, wherever those roads may lead.

There are fires yet to come, and Aziraphale is damned either way.

Aziraphale turns his head so he can look at Crowley’s profile. The sides of his glasses conceal his eyes and the dark blurs the rest of his face, but then Aziraphale has never really needed to see Crowley to understand him. He reaches over to touch the back of Crowley’s hand, just a there-and-gone brush of his fingertips. Crowley turns to face him, tilting his head slightly in inquiry.

Carefully, Aziraphale lays his hand on top of Crowley’s. It’s light, like a nervous sparrow poised to take flight, but there are a million little points of contact, a question and a concession all at once. He doesn’t speak, but of course he doesn’t have to - Crowley understands without words, always has, even as he questions and fights and falls again and again.

Crowley tilts his head a bit more, an eyebrow peeking out over his sunglasses in a wordless _Are you sure?_ and Aziraphale nods. Wanting has always been his folly, rare books and fine wine, and right now, Aziraphale _wants_. 

The bus shifts into the right lane, several other vehicles sliding out of the way to make room, and then turns toward Westminster. Crowley is still watching him, brows drawn in another unspoken question, and Aziraphale is almost grateful that he can’t see Crowley’s eyes. He’s not sure if he has any answers in him besides _yes_ , and that is far too dangerous.

Aziraphale manages a tight smile and a nod for the bus driver when they disembark, and then he follows Crowley up to the flat. He’s been here a few times over the years, mostly in and out to check on Crowley’s plants when the demon is away, but he’s never lingered. Crowley’s flat is _cold._ The temperature is perfectly controlled of course, but it’s so empty, all sleek lines and stone. It could equally be a showroom as a place someone lives, a lavish display of wealth with no warmth behind it.

It reminds Aziraphale a little of Heaven, in some ways.

Lights come on obediently as they cross the threshold, and Aziraphale squints reflexively. It’s not any brighter than the hall and he can adjust his eyes in an instant, but something about the white light reflecting on the smooth stone walls has Aziraphale feeling like an insect, compelled to skitter under the dark sanctuary of the nearest appliance.

“Do you want - I could make tea,” Crowley offers, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. “Or there might be wine, if you like?” His hands flutter in front of him nervously and a heel twists on the carpet. It’s odd to see Crowley so unsure of himself, like one false step will sent Aziraphale racing to repent. As if there is anywhere else in all the universe that Aziraphale could be right now.

He shakes his head. “Can we just--” Aziraphale starts and then breaks off when he can’t find the words. There are usually so many words in Aziraphale, complaints and requests and little comments bursting to come out, and not just to fill the silence, the way Crowley sometimes speaks. The well of them has drawn dry, and he just _wants_ , a formless tug inside of him for Crowley that won’t be satisfied by chatting over drinks and pretending everything is normal. 

He makes an inarticulate noise of frustration, frowning deeply, and Crowley takes a slow step toward him like Aziraphale is a frightened deer he’s trying not to spook. “Hey,” Crowley says, voice soft. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Just tell me what you need, angel.”

_You_ , Aziraphale doesn’t say. His hands make an abortive little motion toward Crowley, and then understanding dawns on Crowley’s face. He opens his arms to Aziraphale, nodding slightly in invitation, and waits. The lines of his forehead have all smoothed out, and Aziraphale knows, somehow, that Crowley will wait as long as he needs. All night is nothing compared to six thousand years.

He and Crowley have never been especially tactile with each other. It’s Aziraphale’s doing, mostly, holding back out of what he calls propriety but has only ever been guilt, as if Falling were contagious through touch. But then, it’s never _really_ been Falling that Aziraphale had feared. Falling would only serve as confirmation of it, that there is no more mercy Above as Below.

He didn’t even need to Fall.

Aziraphale closes the remaining distance and wraps his arms around Crowley’s waist. Crowley’s arms come up to hold him loosely, carefully, and Aziraphale melts against him. He tucks his face into Crowley’s shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of Crowley’s chest against his, the unnecessary but undeniable beat of their two hearts.

Crowley exhales slowly, breath stirring the hair against Aziraphale’s temple. “This too fast, angel?” he murmurs. Knowing Crowley, it’s probably meant to be a joke, but there is nothing but sincerity in his voice, willing to meet Aziraphale where he stands.

“This is perfect,” Aziraphale says. He can’t quite bring himself to regret the distance he’d kept between them. The warmth of Crowley’s arms is very nearly divine, the breath in his hair its own kind of rapture, but there always would have been consequences eventually. How could one possibly enjoy paradise knowing that damnation would soon follow? He couldn’t risk Crowley, not if there was any chance of his destruction.

But he may yet lose Crowley either way. Earth may have escaped the Reckoning, but Heaven and Hell both will render their judgements, and there is nothing left to lose that he has not already lost or will shortly lose.

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispers, tilting his chin up to press the words against the smooth skin of Crowley’s throat. He pulls Crowley closer still, pressed all along him as if he might pull Crowley’s occult form inside of his own corporation, keep him safe nestled alongside Aziraphale’s own ethereal form. “Darling, I love you so.”

Crowley takes in a great, shuddery breath, his whole body trembling with it, and presses his face against the crown of Aziraphale’s head. He doesn’t speak, but Aziraphale can feel it, that which he’d dared not speak for so long. It rolls against Aziraphale like the tide, a constant ebb and flow that he might willingly drown in.

“I love you,” Aziraphale says, and if this is all they have, he will say it all night, as long as it takes. “I love you.”


End file.
